“Give me a moment.” He flashed them a smile before leaving.
Jackie O launched into an endless monologue of complaints. She’d had it rough lately, returning from a lackluster spa getaway in St. Lucia—you’d think they’d know how to make a decent G and T!—to learn her Chow-Chow Chloe needed to go on meds for hypertension. She’d really lit into Chloe’s walker. As upsetting as the story was, her brow showed no signs of furrowing; Clara bet they had the same dermatologist. That morning Clara had gone for, or at least she hoped she had, the subtle “Mommy’s gotten some sleep” look. She wondered how much more it cost for Jackie O’s zombie surprise package.
“So true.” Labels nodded, clearly not listening. Clara bet if someone offered her a million dollars to repeat what Jackie O had just said she’d have to pass.
“Here you are, ladies.” The waiter returned, this time with drinks on his tray. Setting out square cocktail napkins, he set down two gin and tonics and a Bloody Mary bearing a giant celery stick.
“Thank God.” Jackie O drew deep from her glass, both hands cupped around it so it wouldn’t get away. “Now that’s what I call a G and T.”
“Liquid lunch today, ladies?”
Tittering, Labels swatted his arm. “Oooh, you’re so bad.”
“I’ll have a beet salad,” Jackie O said. After scribbling down her order, the waiter turned to Clara.
Glancing quickly at the single-sheet menu before her, Clara ordered the first thing she saw. “I’ll have a burger and fries.”
Everyone laughed.
“I want that arugula salad.” Labels brought a hand to the waiter’s forearm. “But you know how I like the dressing. On the side.”
“On the side.” He made a note on his pad, then looked up again at Clara, expectantly. Apparently he awaited her real lunch order.
“Um, the arugula salad?”
After another ten minutes that felt like ten hours, Clara had learned that Labels had fired her decorator and she hated the new tennis pro at the club, but she was pleased because she’d finally been able to book an appointment with that surgeon in the city, the one who did the procedures only legal in Brazil. Clara had also learned that a woman they all knew had filed for divorce but she’d been able to get Sam as her attorney so she should clean up. Finally, Clara discovered that she was in charge of finding a caterer for the upcoming benefit.
“Who made those mini croissant sandwiches at Trudy’s? The ones with the curry chicken?” Labels asked.
“Nancy’s?” Clara wondered aloud, her first contribution to the conversation. Remembering the cryptic note on her iPhone, she continued, “We should hire Nancy’s for the minis.”
“Perfect.”
Clara exhaled, relieved she’d delivered her line at the right time.
Fifteen minutes after the salads had arrived, no one had taken a bite.
Clara excused herself and headed to the bathroom. For the past few minutes that had seemed like years she’d been fantasizing about a natural disaster rescuing her, perhaps a mudslide or a tidal wave. But then she’d realized that even a tidal wave wouldn’t do the trick. With all of the plastic inside the three of them they’d simply bob right up to the top.
What was with these witchy sticks? She’d been around enough wealthy people to know that they came in all shapes, sizes and flavors, just like regular people only with much better teeth. These two were like a parody of drunk rich betches; maybe this was some kind of a joke? She glanced around the bathroom half-hoping to discover a film crew. All she found was her reflection in the mirror: an orange wearing a yellow wig with giant boobs.
Clara rummaged in her bag; she needed an aspirin. She found pill bottle and held it up for inspection under bright bathroom lighting. Ativan.
Shaking out a small, white five-sided pill marked with an A, Clara stared at it in her palm wondering what, exactly, did Ativan do? She had a vague sense it calmed things down, a Mother’s little helper. But was this a strong dose? What if she’d built up a tolerance as old Clara but now as this new Clara she’d end up twisting her Escalade around a tree trunk? She slid the pill back into the bottle and closed the cap.
Reapplying her lipstick, she gave herself a pep talk. Millions of women would want to trade places with her at that very moment. She was an effing lady who lunched.
“You are Mrs. Brad Wilkins.” She told herself close up in the mirror. “Own it.”
Squaring her shoulders, she pushed open the bathroom doors and headed straight out into the arms of a man in a trim-fitting grey suit.
“Clara!” He exclaimed, one hand extended to each of her elbows. “What a surprise to see you here!” His eyes twinkled with secret amusement and he kissed her on the cheek.
“Um, hi!” Clara had to appreciate the chiseled, Ralph Lauren model quality of his nose and cheekbones. But his strong cologne and blindingly bright white teeth left the most lasting impression.
“You coming to see that house I told you about?” He chucked her under the chin, his index finger lingering there a moment.
“The house?”
“1:30. I’ll text you the address.” Taking a step away, he added, “Looking forward to it,” and left.
Were she and Brad house hunting? But their giant and perfect home surely met their needs. Perhaps they were looking into an investment property? That man must be their realtor, helping them find something to diversify their portfolio. Smiling at her smarts—how had she even come up with the phrase ‘diversify their portfolio’?—she returned to her table.
“Somebody’s smiling,” Jackie O observed, her own lips pursed together as if sucking on a lemon.
“Saw you with Roger.” Labels sipped her brand new Bloody Mary. “Seeing a house later today?”
“Yup. 1:30.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Jackie O took another long slug of her gin and tonic. Clara had the impression most anything met with that response from her. My dog died. “I’ll drink to that!”
Defiantly, Clara took a bite of her salad. They might not eat a thing but she was starving. And where was the bread tray? Nothing like free bread at a fancy restaurant.
Half an hour later, Clara finally sprang free, furloughed for good behavior. She hadn’t said much, but she hadn’t needed to. Her companions had done fine themselves, commenting on the droop of one woman’s botched face lift, then greeting her with air kisses when she stopped by their table. Gossiping about how someone they knew was slumming it on the side with the pool boy, then swatting Marco the waiter on the backside.
Walking to her car, Clara felt grateful she hadn’t opted for valet. Fresh air. It would have to do in lieu of the shower she dearly wanted. She felt like a cat actually had gotten sick all over her. With friends like those…
Clara turned the key in the ignition. She punched on her GPS, entering in the address Roger had texted her. She’d go see this house, make it quick, then head home and get cracking. She had a long list of To Dos ahead of her. ‘See husband’ jockeyed for position right at the top along with ‘get to know own children.’ Under that: ‘make new friends.’
At 1:28 she pulled up in front of a house that had to span at least 6,000 square feet. Towering pines and oaks provided an oasis of privacy on the two-acre lot. It was one heck of an investment property.
Standing amidst several pillars, she knocked on the front door. Then rang the bell, realizing in a house that size Roger the Realtor might well not be standing within earshot of a knock. Moments later, he opened the doors with panache.
“Right this way, my lady.” He had the distinct aura of a game show host. She guessed a realtor with homes this posh had to be part salesman, part showman. She half expected him to pull a rabbit out of a hat or set some doves free in the entryway.
“I want to show you my favorite room first.” He smiled at her, all teeth.
“OK, let’s make it quick if you don’t mind. I have some things I need to take care of.”
“That’s my girl,” he chuckled. “
Right down to business. Follow me.” With a spring in his step, he headed up the grand central staircase. Down the hallway, he ushered her through another set of double doors.
The master bedroom. Larger than the main meeting room at CAHWCFC, the one they used when they needed to announce cutbacks or layoffs. The curtains hung heavy, threaded with gold and green, each held back by a thick, braided sash. They looked exactly like the curtains in The Sound of Music, the ones Maria turned into play clothes.
“Hey, these are exactly like—”
The loud, pumping, pounding beat of dance music suddenly filled the room: “I’m Sexy and I Know It.”
Clara turned around and instantly wished that she hadn’t. Sometimes you saw something and no matter how much you wished you hadn’t seen it, how much you prayed you could forget it, you knew it was indelibly burned into your brain. You knew that image would haunt you the rest of your days.
Roger, as shaved and spray-tanned as Clara, stood stripped of all clothing except for one last, unforgettable scrap of cloth. Leopard print. Manscaped within an inch of his life, he technically wore a thong. But a different phrase truly captured the essence of his look: banana hammock.
Hands clasped behind his head, he gave Clara her own personal Chippendales show. He pumped and thrust his bod, singing along with the song. “I’m sexy and I know it!”
Clara made the sound of a cat choking on a hairball.
He began to flex his muscles, showing off his sculpted shoulders and biceps. “Rock hard,” he admired himself. “Just how you like it, baby. Now show me what you bought for me today. A new thong?”
Clara stood stock still, refusing to process the facts of the situation. He began advancing toward her, taking turns flexing his pecs, first right, then left.
Clara brought her hands to her stomach. “Cramp! I have a cramp!” She bolted toward the doors and wrenched down a solid gold lever to open one.
“What?”
“Something I ate.” She waved a hand in the air, making her way quickly down the hallway. “A bug in the soup! A cigarette in my salad!”
Nearly at the bottom of the stairs now, she heard him calling down again, “What?”
“Gotta go!” Another wrench of a doorknob—these people got a workout just opening their own doors—and Clara hurtled down the stone steps toward her car, fueled by the almighty power of Get Me Outta Here.
Motor revved up, off that street, Clara managed to punch the button on the GPS to “go home”. She powered down her window and gulped in some fresh air.
Music, maybe something on the radio could distract her from what had just happened. Because it looked an awful lot like she was cheating on Brad with a leopard print banana hammock wearing realtor.
“Looks like we made it!” Barry Manilow crooned and the backup singers agreed, “Ahh, ahh, ahh, ahh!” She punched another station. “You’re still the one! The only one I dream of! You’re still the one I kiss good night!” Damn that Shania Twain and her catchy lyrics of devotion. Clara angrily punched the radio again and was rewarded with none other than: “I’m sexy and I know it!”
She hit the off button with a trigger finger faster than a lawman out in the Wild West. Grasping the steering wheel, Clara guessed she had to do it. She had to think about things, take stock of her current life.
OK. So she was having an affair. Her kids were monsters, her friends piranhas. She’d started the morning with a doctor sticking a needle into her face. Then she’d blown money on lingerie, not, as she’d thought, for some romantic time with her husband but, in fact, to impress her realtor. Correction: a cheesy game show host of a realtor who liked to flex his overly tanned and shaved muscles at her for foreplay. And wore a leopard print banana hammock.
Things had to get better. They had to. How could they possibly get any worse?
CHAPTER 10
IT GETS WORSE
Only 1:52pm. Amazing how half a day could feel like a month. She still had over an hour before her appointment with her interior designer.
Standing in her walk-in closet, she wondered what in the world this fancy-pants philandering Clara wore when she needed to chillax around the house. Where did she stow her comfy sweats? Her workout clothes consisted of second-skin peel-on tanks and leggings, as comfortable as a scuba suit. Her pajamas slipped and slithered through her hands, nothing but bits and scraps of lace and silk.
The best Clara could come up with were white linen palazzo pants, absurdly easy to wrinkle and stain but at least they had a drawstring waist. Deep down in a drawer with swimsuits and beach cover-ups she found a terrycloth hoodie in a roomy size small. Now all she needed was a scarlet letter A she could embroider on it all and she’d be good to go.
How could she have done it? Cheat on Brad, the perfect husband? She had the perfect life—or, at least, she could have. They obviously had the wealth of Greek gods, two healthy children, plus each other!
Pacing across her bedroom floor—and still a part of her marveled at having a bedroom large enough to pace back and forth in—her fingers nearly twitched for something to do. She needed some mindlessly soothing activity like folding clothes, taking a mess and making it neat and tidy, putting everything away in its place. But no such luck, not even a stray hair remained on her brush.
Wandering restlessly into the hallway, she turned right and opened a door. She found another large, neat-as-a-pin bedroom, this one with a chocolate brown comforter on the king-size bed. The closet displayed a long row of nearly identical navy blue and charcoal gray suits, a few with subtle pinstripes. Brad’s closet? And separate bedroom?
OK, so it looked like she and Brad slept in separate bedrooms. Nothing to worry about, right? With an even greater desire to distract herself from her own thoughts, Clara resumed her aimless wandering through the spotless house. She found nothing that required her attention. No unfinished projects, photos needing to be framed or even half-read books. Every bit of it was decorated within an inch of its life, the details in curtains picking up accents of color in throw pillows echoing hints of hues on rugs. A nautical theme in the living room was flawlessly executed with whimsical seashells in a glass, a two-foot model of an old fashioned sailing ship, and a hardcover book on the coffee table featuring lighthouses.
Where were the kids’ toys? Clara’s sister Shelly back in California had a 14-month-old and you couldn’t take a step in their house without kicking a block or a stuffed animal. She couldn’t help feeling increasingly freaked out as she wandered through the rooms in search of any evidence of family. Did any of them ever spend time in the house? She peeked into a bathroom: every hand towel arranged just so plus the last sheet of toilet paper folded into a triangle. The whole place felt as warm and homey as a professionally-decorated hotel.
Back in the living room, Clara perched awkwardly on the edge of a couch. Even her miniscule body weight worried her; she didn’t want to damage the furniture. A clock over the mantle ticked loudly. Only ten past two? How was that possible? The interior designer didn’t arrive until three.
Drumming her fingers nervously along her leg, her gaze landed upon a white basket holding magazines. On the top, a pair of sultry, dark eyes fixed on her. Startled, she picked it up and found herself once again face-to-face with Cornell’s high-achieving alum: the Knight in the Shining Lab Coat.
She guessed it made sense that not everything had changed in this reality. In the photo inside, accompanying the article, Alek wore jeans and a muted plaid shirt almost like the one he’d worn back in college for their final study session, sleeves rolled up. He stood in front of a classic black lab table, his arms crossed in front of his chest, steady gaze direct into the camera. Focused, determined, driven. And sporting one broad set of shoulders, Clara had to admit.
Scanning the opening paragraph, she learned that he was 34 and he’d become an associate professor at UC Berkeley. He’d recently been named a “top five to watch” in the burgeoning field of Green Tech, which admittedly sounded cool but meant nex
t-to-nothing to Clara.
Was that a thump? Sitting still and upright on the couch, she listened. She didn’t hear anything more.
Back to the article she learned that he was hoping to make a breakthrough in solar power. He spoke about it with passion, inspired by its potential to transform global poverty. Apparently, he’d grown up poor in what was then Communist-controlled Czechoslovakia.
Now that was definitely a thump. And a…groan? Clara stood, letting the magazine slip to the floor. It almost sounded like a trapped animal. What if a bird had gotten stuck in one of their many chimneys? Clara stepped toward the hallway to investigate.
There, she heard it again. A muffled whacking sound, like an animal thrashing against some furniture. And a grunt. Coming from the Cornell room.
What if it was a burglar? Did she need some sort of a weapon? She glanced around and spotted a lamp with a naked gold cherub; she supposed it was her decorator’s idea of whimsy. Could it make a good club?
There, she heard another sound: high-pitched, brief, hard to place. If someone were robbing the house wouldn’t they be more quiet?
Creeping forward, she turned the knob and opened the door.
There, against the pool table, she finally saw Brad. Naked but for his old lacrosse helmet, he stood with his back to Clara. But his front faced the au pair. And they weren’t playing pool.
“It’s Wilkins,” Brad narrated, out of breath. “He’s taking it down the field. He shakes his defender.”
“Shoot it!” the au pair yelled, an avid fan.
“He comes around the crease!” Brad yelled in the excited patter of a newscaster. “He winds up his shot!”
“Shoot it!”
Victorious, Brad yelled, “And he scores!”
Clara brought her hand up to her lips. She’d just thrown up a little in her mouth. She guessed that pool table wasn’t clean enough to eat off of like she’d thought.
The au pair opened her eyes. And saw Clara.
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